My weapons to offer the beast
I peered out the window to see the monolithic beast spreading across the world. Barefoot, I walked to it, across the field, in ankle deep mud. I reached out to connect, for a second like the apes in 2001, I expected some enlightenment. Instead, splinters and bruised hands.
Taking up arms, in an effort to aid encroachment. I began to get in step with the task. My weapons to offer the beast, simple sweat and hammer and nails. Slowly the rhythm takes form, at first off tempo, just to get the aim true. The targets, like flies on carrion, so many. Tiny metal daggers begging to be driven home into the heart of the beast. Each hammer swing completes their journey and starts mine.
Each hammer swing sends echoes across the field, like the far away crack of gunfire. Five or six in quick succession, then the silence. Only long enough to pick another and do it again. Each repeated session adds another piece of armor, another division, another wave of echoes.
The form has become logical and dual in purpose. To keep in or to keep out. A conscious decision to separate and contain. A method to conceal and allow freedom. A boundary to border our imagination. A backyard privacy fence.
The process, somehow therapeutic. Despite the growing tension of my muscles, the tension of my mind is decreased, dissolved with each swing. With each swing and the insured impact that follows, a bit of fog clears in my head. A bit of angst tempered down to cool blue from a hazardous red. A bit of bullshit goes null.
The sun sets and I carry the new empty spaces in my head to bed.